


between the happiness and the hardness

by futile_devices



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuuin no Tsurugi | Fire Emblem: Binding Blade
Genre: M/M, a chance for a fresh start to you, always veiled confessions babby, elffie is a little shit sometimes. hes a tease and i love him, man i just got emotional about the thought of a coronation scene, my my a chance to breathe again, thats all tho, theres no audience for this but who cares., this originally was a dream but like. i wanted to write it actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-26 13:35:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19006840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/futile_devices/pseuds/futile_devices
Summary: ‘you could have. the words we shared then were not binding.’ the smile is no longer present, perceval’s face falling to the same kind of severity he wore everyday and every hour.but mildain only shakes his head. ‘no, i couldn’t.’ the weight of the world could rest on his shoulders (and it has) and he would still return. how long it took for him to understand that is too embarrassing to say. there were some parts of life intrinsically weaved into a person’s soul, somethings that could never change. even into death, like so much else of mildain’s heart, change would reign. growth, surely, for all things do, but to change so much to deny the purpose of his birth? to deny what what he had to do, to deny the land of his mother and father and all the kings and saints before him? mildain could not, even if he still dreams of being that traveling bard.





	between the happiness and the hardness

the grand hall of the castle is different than mildain remembers. some of the banners are torn and tattered, likely from the siege of aquelia. another aspect he will have to rebuild from the ground up. a few of the columns are chipped, windows broken, the throne itself is askew. he had been away for so long, a lifetime and death since he breathed the air of his home, stepped on the stone of his childhood, could see the faces of those he was meant to serve. they stand in rows, endlessly down toward the open door. their smiles bright, gowns grand and blades polished. 

 

still, home seems so far away, even as he stands at the altar of it all, bathed in golden robes. mildain could never be that boy again, the prince of etruria so young and cheerful. he could never be so carefree to run about the palace halls or to find ways to lead his knight to whichever corner they could be alone in. it could never be that simple again. never. he wishes he could be the boy he was before he died, before the war, before everything burned to flame and he drowned in the ashes. 

 

could he ever be worthy of such an honor? 

 

his birthright, yes, son of mordred and elaine, prince of etruria, but poison still runs through his blood. he could still be blinded by his wants, blind to the needs of his people, blinded to what he must do in the name of the many. 

 

but that acknowledgment is more than many could claim. humility befits him more than the crown of golden laurels that rest upon his head. mildain could never believe himself a perfect or wise or truly just man, but he would try for those he has failed in his own foolish youth. he will not die on them again, he will not leave them again in the hands of treacherous and traitorous men. he will defend them at whatever cost. he may fail but he will not relent. 

 

and it will be tiresome. it will be the cost of his joy and freedom and all that he wanted as a wayward bard, but it will be for  _ good. _

 

some dreams simply aren’t meant to be. 

 

it is best for mildain to realize that as the cleric recites the words of st. elmine, that he will be king now, and kings do not act in the name of their own love and wishes. kings act in love of their people, in the wishes of their people. a king cannot be a selfish man. many kings have been, but they were not good kings nor good men. they might have been good warriors or lovers or fathers or gamblers but they were not good kings. mildain is none of that. so he must, then, be what all those other men cannot be. selfish desires are difficult to get rid of, to cure and dispose of, so if he cannot bid farewell to them, then he will simply hold them and live them in the name of goodness. to be the king he must try to be. 

 

well, no one has ever been perfect, either, mildain supposes. 

 

it is an easier resolve to be better than those who came before him, then. none had seen the horrors he had. none had seen death, had held death in their body, and lived on. none had fought in such a grand battle against the forces of darkness. none other than st. elmine, but that is too grand a pedestal to aspire to. 

 

what he will have to kill within himself to reach that, he will see. 

 

all the people cheer, he thinks, but their shouts fall deaf on his ears. he has his sight, but all the faces blur and he cannot make out the shapes of the soldiers he fought beside. nerves, or something of the like. perhaps a smaller bout of illness, a reminder of his death that never seemed to leave (likely because he overworked himself to the point of no recovery; a habit he will be forced to continue). 

 

but still, he searches for a face in a crowd that he cannot fully see. 

 

no, in the crowd, that wouldn’t make sense, would it? at his side, that is right. or is that another wish he must rid himself of? 

 

but they begin to flood out the door, and mildain doesn’t care enough to not follow, to run after because there is no one at his side but there should be. there has always been. when mildain needs him most, he would not fail mildain. 

 

a voice calls from behind him.  _ ‘my king.’ _ mildain does not need to look. he has memorized it and not even death could force him to forget it. 

 

mildain can feel the joy outpour from him, can feel it rush as he turns and smiles.  _ ‘my knight.’ _ through the cracks in the stained glass, sunlight floods the throne room, perfectly casting upon a gold he has always loved more than the actual metal. 

 

_ ‘i have not seen the people happier than now.’ _

 

he has an answer to a question he posed a series of letters ago. old hearts still beat. 

 

_ ‘oh, are they?’ _

 

perceval pauses, a question on his lips.  _ ‘your si-?’ _

 

he waves that off quickly.  _ ‘i do not know what to compare them to, is all. it has been so long.’  _

 

his knight nods at that, but joins mildain.  _ ‘but you are finally here. you are home.’ _ his smile is delicate, miniscule, barely even a smile but mildain could sing of it as beaming. a little detail he holds selfishly in his heart; mildain is the only one to see it. 

 

_ ‘even wayward birds fly home in the end.’ _ mildain laughs, somehow. they stay suspended in the other’s presence, when the throne room has all been emptied and the only thing that lingers alongside them is the flickering candlelight and the colored sunshine tesselating from stained glass.  _ ‘i gave you my word. i could not very well break it, could i?’  _  always far easier to make light of the subject. the other would understand regardless. none of this could ever be easy. 

 

_ ‘you could have. the words we shared then were not binding.’  _ the smile is no longer present, perceval’s face falling to the same kind of severity he wore everyday and every hour. 

 

but mildain only shakes his head.  _ ‘no, i couldn’t.’ _ the weight of the world could rest on his shoulders (and it has) and he would still return. how long it took for him to understand that is too embarrassing to say. there were some parts of life intrinsically weaved into a person’s soul, somethings that could never change. even into death, like so much else of mildain’s heart, change would reign. growth, surely, for all things do, but to change so much to deny the purpose of his birth? to deny what what he had to do, to deny the land of his mother and father and all the kings and saints before him? mildain could not, even if he still dreams of being that traveling bard. 

 

he supposes the songs he sings now will only be more important than tavern cheer. 

 

_ ‘did you hope i would leave, general perceval?’  _ his lips return to a grin, raising his left hand to rest on perceval’s arm.  _ ‘how unbecoming.’ _

 

the knight’s expression does not change, other than the softening of his eyes.  _ ‘i would miss your melodies far too much.’ _ he has missed them, that year, enough to never need to miss them again.  _ ‘and the rest would miss your guidance and presence.’  _

 

_ ‘yes, yes, the rest. perceval, may i ask you of something?’  _

 

_ ‘of course, my king.’  _

 

_ ‘let me never fail them, the rest. and you as well.’ _ to think of failing them once more- if he did, he might as well have died to that arrow. 

 

_ ‘you would never.’ _  perceval swears.  _ ‘regardless, you will have a whole council to ensure the best for the realm.’  _

 

mildain looks away for a second with a sharp exhale of breath, and then back.  _ ‘but of you, perceval, will you always-’  _

 

that is not a necessary question. 

 

_ ‘my- mildain. you will always have me.’  _

 

_ ‘and i shall always be yours.’  _ such small affirmations can be afforded now, at the very least, enough to make mildain always wish to speak of them, write them in each and every constellation, see of them in every cloud. hear of them, in the end, if he should lose his sight.  _ ‘but we should likely leave. my first hour as king and i will have already arrived late. a lovely start, isn’t it, perceval?’  _

 

_ ‘best not to make of it a habit.’  _

 

_ ‘ah, no. let’s hope we do not.’ _

 

and they likely will. 

  
  



End file.
